Baby, It's Just a State of Mind
by Kayt
Summary: There's an awful lot of downtime on a recruiting trip across the country - more than enough time for Charles and Erik to learn a great deal about themselves, their powers, each other, and the place they can forge for themselves in society.
1. Chapter 1: Montana

**Chapter 1: Montana**

He's all but forgotten the blessed country quiet after years of Oxford minds pressing against him, town and gown with their petty squabbles and crushes and theories of linguistics. Middle-of-nowhere Montana is truly a paradise in more ways than one. Fresh pine washes over him, filtered through nobody's nostrils but his own. His ears alone relay the thwap-thwap-thwap of their laboring engine on these absurd roads, chipped a little too narrowly into the mountain for this great boat of a car the CIA has lent them. There's Erik, of course, grumbling quietly behind the wheel as he inches through the turns, but the man's mind is a bank vault, locked tight.

Well, maybe not so tight as all that – their stomachs growl in perfect stereo. Personally, he's far from hungry - it takes much less food to power Charles' smaller frame, resting idle in the passenger seat, than big Erik's leashed restlessness, the involuntary push of his mind against the motor, the door locks, the car's heaving frame.

Erik snorts, laughter laced with bite and a suspicious sidelong glance. Charles' apology will do nothing to create proper trust between them but… "Forgive me, my friend. I grew careless when I couldn't hear you for so long."

Erik's jaw hardens in a way that Charles refuses to take personally. "Can you hear me now?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Then why…" He gestures at Charles' belly.

He can feel a blush tinting his impossible coloring; he fears that, appearances to the contrary, he's more of an open book to Erik than the reverse. "I simply forgot to filter out the part of your mind that monitors the body's processes. It's so quiet here, you're so quiet," Charles taps his head to illustrate, forcing himself to hold on to his small grin even as Erik flinches, "that I just… slipped."

The hostile edge in Erik's eyes turns speculative. "You feel that? Everyone? Right down to…" a stutter in the thought before Erik squashes whatever it was ruthlessly, hard enough that Charles feels it like a slap in his own mind even though he's not peeking, "down to digestion?"

"I can't, usually. Well, not that I've noticed. It's just…" Hard to put words to it. Now that he looks inward, examines what his brain's been up to, he sees that on some subconscious level it's been scanning their surroundings constantly, a car radio searching for a signal that simply isn't there. "I haven't been anywhere this silent in a very long time."

Erik's smile grows unforced as he graces the dashboard with a proprietary pat. "I suspect I am much the same."

Charles' own smile still feels a little uncertain. "I _am_ sorry. I will work to make sure that I'm not… unconsciously evesdropping."

"Even on this?" Erik's hand falls on his stomach.

"Especially that. I won't be hungry for ages."

Erik grins, wolfish and sharp. "Nonetheless, we're stopping for supper the moment we get down off this godforsaken mountain."

Charles groans and Erik _hmmmmms_ at him, turning his attention back toward the admittedly treacherous road.

XXXXXXXX

"I'm not saving you if you choke to death," Charles says, a little amused despite his stomach's complaints. Erik is wolfing down the monstrous fried creation they're calling a Pork Chop John with indecent relish, stuffing fries in his mouth alongside the sandwich.

The amusement at their expense rolls off the miners crammed alongside them in the cheery diner in unpleasant waves, increasing his nausea even though his fries are admittedly delicious. He's never been much of one for eating in the evenings at the best of times. Why bother with a proper supper when liquor is quicker without?

And these… these are far from the best of times. The sea of thoughts around them is turning brackish as the miners take in their accents, their clothes, their obviously government-issued car. "Erik," he murmurs, voice low but not low enough to make the other man lean in because _that_… Well, suspicion of _that_ is in the mix as well. "We need to go. These people think we're communist spies."

Erik looks rebelliously at the remains of his sandwich, Charles' barely-touched fries. "We can take them with us in the car," Charles soothes, and for all his work to keep Erik's thoughts at bay the rush of _shameangergratitude_ rolls over him by force.

"We're not making very good time," Erik grits, too loud. "Best get back on the road."

"All right," says Charles, agreeably, sending out a wave of calm that should be enough to prevent anyone from hindering their departure. There's no way of knowing that things are headed that direction, but, well, better safe than sorry. And Erik would make them very sorry indeed.

Erik crams the rest of his sandwich in his mouth with one hand as they cross the parking lot, pops the car door open with an excess of aggression. "Where's the mutant? The sooner we can leave this place, the better."

Charles lets his fingers roam to his temple, spreads his mind as wide as he can, which turns out to be quite unnecessary. "Oh dear." Erik cocks his head, questioning. "It seems… Well, it seems he was back there in the diner. He's a surveyor in the mines." Charles squints. "He can feel one type of ore from the next." Erik's eyes are wide, startled – of course, that's an awfully close cousin to his own power. "He can't manipulate it – identification only. He isn't quite aware of how he does it, and neither is anyone he works with. They think he's nothing more nor less than a brilliant surveyor."

"And he thinks we're communist spies."

Charles' hand slips down to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Yes."

Erik turns the ignition with too much force. "I think we're done here."

As much as he wishes for a more auspicious beginning to their recruiting drive, Charles is forced to agree.

XXXXXXXX

It's late and dark, growing ever darker, and the roads are as treacherous and tree-lined as ever. Erik's fingers drum an unhappy but soporific pattern on the steering wheel.

The car turns suddenly, sharply, jostling Charles hard against the car door. He's well and truly awake now, more than awake enough to suspect it was only Erik's mental intervention that kept the door from popping open under his weight. "Erik, what…?"

He gestures toward one of the myriad little brown signs they've passed, something-or-other State Park. "I'm tired of driving," Erik says, blithely raising the metal arm placed next to a booth labeled with a large sign indicating "Day Use Only."

"Fair enough." The last mileage sign he was awake enough to remember had placed the little city that they're aiming for, Missoula, much farther away than it seems like it ought to be. "I can take a turn if you like."

Erik's eyes rake Charles, and he's suddenly hyper-aware of his own sleepy blinks and half-curled posture. "Not a chance." He pulls the car into a parking space and is out rummaging around in the trunk before Charles can get his feet underneath him to help. "I did make sure we came prepared." _It's a good thing, too_ written plainly on his face as he pulls Charles' door open and presses a sleeping bag into his arms. "Come on, then."

This probably isn't a good idea, but he's too sleepy to marshal up any arguments right now and where's the harm in it, really? Hasn't he always meant to give camping a go? Here's his perfect chance. It smells like pine, and not the least bit like rain, and frankly he doesn't fancy an unnecessary argument with Erik after the day they've had.

Erik is tromping around with a frankly unnecessary vigor. It seems best to just wait by the car until whatever mysterious requirements the man has are satisfied. "Come on, then," Erik shouts, sleepy and impatient. So much for that plan. Charles pauses to liberate his bag from the back seat and scrambles to follow Erik's zigzag path through the dark trees. He's so intent on keeping up that he nearly skids into Erik, come to an abrupt halt in a clearing close to the little river, fenced in by trees but large enough that anything coming out of them will have some distance to cross before it reaches them. "This'll do," Erik grunts, dropping to his knees to roll out his sleeping bag.

"It's practically a palace," he says and Erik snorts at him as he retreats into the woods, just far enough to get out of sight and into his pajamas.

Erik laughs outright as he emerges. "Well, now it's a proper slumber party."

"You try sleeping in wool trousers," and if he's returning Erik's grin, well, better to end this endless day on a friendly note.

Erik raises an eyebrow at the bottle of scotch he rummages out of his bag. "If you're planning to play spin the bottle, I'm leaving you here."

"Oh, ha ha," and that doesn't sound half so irritated as he'd meant it to. He takes a long swallow from the bottle and hands it over to Erik, who takes a judicious sip before rolling the liquid around in his mouth and spitting it.

"That's good scotch you're wasting," he says mildly, and takes another pull when Erik hands it back.

"I wouldn't have taken you for such a drinker." Erik's tone is deceptively mild in turn.

At least the dark will hide his flush. "I did promise to take measures about my eavesdropping," and if he's not meeting Erik's eyes, it's certainly because he needs to focus on rolling out his sleeping bag. "Think of it as insurance against dreams."

"Mine or yours?" Interesting; Erik's tone is more curious than closed.

"Either. Both." Charles shrugs and goes about settling in to his bedroll, ignoring Erik's interrogative eyebrow. Who knows what his mind will latch on to in this near-perfect silence when he's not awake to reign it in.

"It's really so hard to stay in your own head?"

Ah. There's a little of the edge back in Erik's tone. "Sadly, I don't come equipped with an off switch," and if he falls a bit short of jovial, well, it's late.

Erik's staring at his hands now, and Charles doesn't need his advantages to know that the man's thinking, wrongly, that his own power only comes up when called. Remarkable, that he doesn't feel his body's constant dialogue with the metal around them, an ever-present itch in Charles' mind.

That's a trouble for another day. Charles closes his eyes, surrenders to the familiar, welcome muzziness of drink. If it was enough to keep his mind close in the crowded pubs of Oxford it would – should – keep him out of his new friend's thoughts absent deliberate effort to the contrary, even if he can feel them pressing around the edges of his consciousness.

It seems, however, that Erik's not quite through with him. "I think you and I were built for the city," he says, contemplative, staring at the stars. "I wonder if there are so many of us out here because they're like our friend the surveyor, tied to nature more than industry."

Charles has his own suspicions about what might draw mutants to a place where there are often miles between houses and it's not unusual to greet unannounced guests with the barrel of a shotgun. But that, too, is a battle for another day, and one he'd be glad to lose. "Perhaps," he allows, and slips into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2: Wyoming

**Chapter 2. Wyoming**

Charles has got to _go._ Somewhere, anywhere, not far, perhaps, but he can feel the pop-pop-pop of liquid-state iron bubbling through Erik far too keenly. He aches with the effort of holding back and this warm truce between them can't survive the total collapse of control that he should have known was immanent. It's been a heady two days, a constant stretch of throwing himself far wider, far further than he's used to, open to anyone and everyone but the nearest, loudest mind. His head aches with use and restraint and this _feeling_ bubbling through Erik as he stands in front of a burbling geyser, hands clenched too tightly on the guardrail, itching to pull and shape and _test_, is the very last straw.

"Bathroom," he manages with a tight, almost certainly unconvincing smile if Erik's alarmed look is anything to go by. There's no more time to dawdle, not if he hopes to stave off whatever is about to happen here, so he races down the wooden boards toward the foul-smelling little shack tucked near the entrance to the visitor's trail. He's not the only human being who's experienced a relief this total here, he's certain, but lord knows he's likely the only one who has greeted the stomach-turning odor of excrement and chemicals with frank gratitude. They ground him in his own body, keep him where he is supposed to be, and the push-push-push of harried tourist thoughts shoves his mind back to its normal center of gravity. He's panting, his head hurts, but he's in control of himself.

Well. Until Erik's hand closes around his elbow. The effort required to push Erik back before Charles sees more than he's supposed to scrapes like fingernails against barked-up flesh. "My friend," and oh, he's a bit winded, "perhaps it would be best if you continued up the trail. I'll meet you back at the car." Erik's mouth pinches like he wants to press, but he's too aware that he can't voice his real question. "It's fine," Charles says, steady, hoping to convey that there's no threat to stand ready against. "I just need a few moments." He quirks his mouth up at the corner. "Too much sun, perhaps."

A frazzled-looking woman to their left nods sympathetically. "And you with no hat on." She clucks her tongue at him. "Put my boy Johnny flat on his back today. But of course I had to take the rest of them out while the hubby stays in the hotel with him." Charles makes sympathetic noises, judiciously stepping in front of Erik's incredulous stare. "I've got a pitcherful of nice cold Tang in the cooler. The rangers said it's just the thing for it, if you'd like some."

"That sounds lovely," he says with a genuine smile. "Go on, Erik," and he dares to make a shooing motion just to see the man's eyebrows climb higher. "There's no reason both of us should miss the sights."

He's not surprised that Erik goes so easily, not with metal-laced thermal features picking insistently at him from steps away. "I can't thank you enough," he says, smiling as he follows his benefactress to her car. "I suppose I wasn't expecting it to be this hot so far north."

"And you pale as anything, too, poor thing. Got a bit of Irish in you I suspect, or thereabouts."

"Thereabouts," and the smile's still tugging at his lips as she presses two Dixie cups into his hands.

"Into the shade with you, then." She shrugs, apologetic. "I've got to be keeping an eye on the kids."

"There _is_ an awful lot of mischief to be found around here." Charles raises one paper cup in a toast. "Thanks again."

"Such a polite boy, Mr…."

"Charles. Charles Xavier."

"Well, you're welcome, Charles Xavier," and she's off with a friendly wave.

One of the picnic tables in the small copse of trees by the trailhead is, improbably, empty. The bilious smell of sulphur must be enough to put people off their picnics, and it doesn't take a person of Erik's abilities to want to stand in awe of the pyrotechnics mother earth's seen fit to strew around this place. Perhaps it's just luck. In any case, he's grateful for the seat, for the cold liquid, gritty and sweet in his mouth, a far more pleasant way to tether himself to his rather-more-mortal-than-usual coil than the rest stop, for Mrs. Cooper's kindness in seeing to a perfect stranger, her friendly, humdrum thoughts like cool water over skinned knees.

By the time Erik returns to him, burbling iron replaced with staccato bursts of excitement and a low thrum of concern, Charles feels almost himself again. "Let's stop for lunch, somewhere nice and crowded, if you don't mind. Old Faithful Lodge, perhaps." Erik nods an easy acquiescence, clearly not sure if he should speak. "And then let's get on with it, do you think?"

"All right," and the silence between then is easy now, friendly. Just this once, Charles lets himself bask in the pleasant background glow of it, of Erik. There will be time enough for restraint.

XXXXXXXX

A decent meal – "Buffalo, Charles? Really?" but of course Erik had tried it, too, stealing from the edge of the plate when he thought Charles wasn't looking – the comfortable crowding of average minds, a few hours of quiet driving and Charles is quite comfortable again, or would be if a creeping aura of _curiosityworry_ weren't suddenly wending its way through the car. Erik is frowning at him thoughtfully. _Watch the road,_ he wants to say. _There's nobody coming and I know you could probably freeze us in midair if we tumble into a ditch, but._

There's an itchy, uncertain quality to this look that Charles can't say he much likes. It's matched by the unfamiliar tenor Erik's voice when he asks, face carefully nonchalant, "Have I been tiring you out?"

Charles smiles, shrugs, unwilling to lie directly even when the truth is so likely to be poorly received. Vagueness is his best defense.

Erik's frown sharpens, aimed now at the highway ahead of them. Charles does his best to focus his attention on the scenery – harsh but not monotonous, green plants clinging tenaciously to the curious red dirt that's already worked its way into the car somehow.

Several miles slip by in itchy silence. He's slipping, just a bit, enough to feel Erik's hands clench around the steering wheel without turning to see them. "What would it be like if I weren't?" A pause. "Tiring you out," he adds, as though Charles might have forgotten.

"It's rather hard to explain." This does nothing to smooth that sharp frown, so Charles tries a sheepish smile on for size. "I can show you, if you like." A pause. There's nothing for it, now. "Easier for you to catch me lying, that way."

And of course it's this unpleasant acknowledgement that smoothes the sharp edges of Erik's scowl. "I'd rather you told me first, if you don't mind."

Charles can feel his own smile sharpen. "A double blind?"

"Something like that," and Erik's open smile releases part of the knot of tension hovering between them.

"Well," and he's stalling, trying to put words to it – it's rather like trying to explain smell or sight. English, with all of its imprecisions, is poorly suited to the task. "When I'm not trying to hear," he inclines his head, "or not trying _not_ to hear," and _there's_ a real smile from Erik and his too many teeth, "there's something of a… background swirl of whatever is currently preoccupying the people I'm near. It's not always specific – moods, from some of them, colors, sentences…" He can't help but smile at the infinite mysteries of the human brain, the incredible variety even in the mundane. "Whatever is flickering at the front of their heads. It's just… to me it processes as background noise. I only get something more specific if I deliberately focus."

"And it tires you to… to tune me out." His voice isn't as harsh as Charles had expected. Well, then.

Charles shrugs, careful to keep his gaze focused on Erik. "That's part of it, yes. It's hardest when I'm… When I'm casting my mind wide, to try and hear our new friends." Erik snorts at the wording. "It's rather like trying to throw a net with a hole in it, only you've got to keep the hole in a very specific place while you do the throwing and… whatever you're trying to keep the hole over is calling to the net. Loudly." He thrusts a hand into his hair. "Oh dear. That analogy rather came apart, didn't it."

"I understood," Erik says shortly, still frowning at the road.

Honestly compels him to add, "I can always feel the fact of people's presence – even yours, my friend, I'm sorry to say. And I can hear you if you're… Let's call it shouting." Erik's eyebrows shoot upwards and Charles hastens to continue, "Which you have only done twice in my presence, when we first met and when you were lifting that file back at the compound."

Erik continues to stare fiercely at the highway ahead of them. After a while, Charles lets his eyes drift back to the passenger-side window, the soothing swirl of passing hills and fences.

The car swerves, flinging Charles into the door despite his lap belt. "I'm beginning to suspect you're doing that deliberately," Charles grouses and Erik grins at him, ratcheting the gears into park.

"Can't have you getting too comfortable." Erik takes a deep breath, smile wavering around the edges. "All right, then. Show me."

This is going to be tricky, precise… To show but not hear – he's never tried to go one way in this particular direction. He slowly extends one hand, slow enough for Erik to draw back, stop him somehow, but Erik lets two fingers rest against his temple. Charles' other hand raises to his own head and there it is, the happy hubbub of minds in the pub on the night of his thesis presentation, a cut to the more muted buzzing once he's had a bit to drink and finally – wait, no, better not to show _that_ particular group, and the booze haze would alter the feel of it anyhow – there, a quick snatch of the group in the compound, Hank and Raven shining bright against the dull roar of agents and analysts, different and special and instantly visible.

Erik's openmouthed, eyes gone enormous, liquid and vulnerable as the day Charles first strapped on Cerebro. Somewhere along the way he's lifted his own hand to cradle Charles' against his temple. A heartbeat, two, and then, "It's like that for you all the time."

"Yes." Another heartbeat. "Well. Unless I do something about it."

Erik's jaw firms. "And when you read someone deliberately?"

Charles chooses his moment, pushes the feeling of rummaging in Agent Stevens' mind to make sure of his intentions over to Erik. Of course that makes him smile, face shifting under Charles' fingers. "I _can_ be suspicious, too."

"It's hardly suspicion, with you," Erik purrs, slipping his hand away from Charles'.

Charles drawn his own hands into his lap, fingers knit, looking, he hopes, harmless. "And there you have it."

"Of course, that's not all you can do." Charles is sad to see the end of that open expression, even if Erik's pale eyes retain some of that shocking warmth.

"No, it's not." Erik nods – that's another discussion, best deferred. He slides the car back into drive, but Charles is watching and for once has time to brace himself against the sudden squeal of the tires.

They haven't got far before Erik's voice cuts the silence again. "You don't have to put yourself out on my account." A small, dangerous smile. "In either direction."

Much as he hates to give Erik time to reconsider… "Are you certain? It will make it much harder to send me smashing into car doors."

"Ah, you underestimate me. My friend," and the teasing purr in those r's goes a long way toward reassuring Charles into releasing the tight strings he's kept wound around his own consciousness. It feels divine.

"Thank you." The softness of his own voice feels out of place, but it calls a similarly soft set to Erik's mouth.

"Think nothing of it," he says, as though that's remotely possible.

XXXXXXXX

"Wait." Charles presses his finger harder to his temple, stretching farther than he really feels able until Erik's nothing more than a ghost presence on the very edge of his consciousness. Best to preserve distance out here in this maze of dirt roads; anyone will hear them coming across the silent miles. "Oh," he says, and Erik's eyes rake him at the surprised tone. "Oh. There's – Erik, there's a whole ranch full of them – a whole family, I think." Just a bit more… "They've been here for years. One of them – ah, it's amazing, imagine being able to divert water out here…"

"They wouldn't welcome the intrusion." It isn't a question, but Charles nods. Another bust in a long string of them. So many mutants, happily installed in the lives they've carefully built for themselves out here away from the more intrusive forms of society, none of whom would be the least bit grateful to see two strangers who can see right through them, none of whom would dream of destroying their cautiously crafted personal palaces. It's frustrating and exhilarating all at once.

"Perhaps we'd better start looking in more… populated areas."

Erik nods. "We'll find an airport tomorrow."

Charles eyes the darkening sky and doesn't bother stifling his groan. "I suppose this means more camping."

"And here I thought you were enjoying our little adventure," Erik teases, but he's staring dubiously at the ground. "But we won't be camping here."

"Dare I even ask?" The ground doesn't look comfortable, precisely, but…

"Snakes," Erik says succinctly and guns the engine. Charles suppresses his shudder, but not quickly enough to avoid Erik's snort of amusement. "Perhaps that little town back on the interstate?"

Well, it has been big enough to warrant a road sign. "Worth a try. Are you sure you don't want me to take a turn at the wheel?"

"Certain," Erik says, too quickly.

"I'm a perfectly capable driver…" Charles starts, and Erik raises a placating hand.

"I'm eager to see any signs of that," he teases warmly, "on some other day. I was under the impression that today has been… rather taxing for you."

"Better now," and Erik matches his warm smile.

"Nevertheless, you could do with some rest," and he must look rebellious because Erik adds, "and I could do with a bit of thinking."

"I see how it is," Charles grumps, but his eyes do feel heavy, stuffed in front of a mind that's been stretched taut as taffy for the better part of a week.

He must have drifted off quick as blinking – the next thing he remembers is the car rumbling to a stop in front of the Hyatville Inn, which looks more like the Hyatville Two Rooms Over A Miniscule Luncheonette. An elderly man in worn coveralls is just locking the door as they pull up. Charles stays Erik with a hand and hops out of the car. Anyone who doesn't know him might think that he's brushing his sleep-mussed hair back, but he can feel Erik' sharp eyes on the back of his head for the few seconds it takes to extract the information he needs.

"Good evening," he calls, and the man raises a friendly hand. "Perhaps you can help us. We're trying to get to Billings and…" A sheepish shrug. "I rather suspect we've taken a wrong turning somewhere. Maybe several wrong turnings."

"You're right about that, I'm afraid. You in a hurry?" Charles shakes his head and the man gestures at the rooms. "Best stay here, then, and get started in the morning. It's a long drive and easy to miss the turns in the dark."

"You're probably right," Charles sighs. "Erik?" The man shrugs peaceably and starts to climb out of the car.

"You're our only takers tonight, so you can have 'em both for the price of one." The man eases a keyring out of his pocket and peels two keys from the metal ring. "Right up those stairs, bathroom's at the end of the hall." A friendly smile. "Anybody can see you boys are beat. We'll settle up in the morning and I'll mark your map out for you, how's that."

"Perfect," Charles says, trying on his most charming smile. "Thanks."

The old man nods amiably and shuffles off down the packed dirt of Main Street, and Charles goes around to help Erik with the bags. A real bed! He pops his shoulders, imagines the way a good night's rest might ease the slow ache in his back, not to mention his head.

Erik tugs Charles' duffel out of his hands, confiscates the bottle of scotch sticking out of it. "I won't deal with you overstrained _and_ hungover."

"Dreams," Charles protests feebly, dragging his feet up the stairs.

"I'll take my chances," Erik deadpans. "Even the mind of great Charles Xavier must need the occasional rest."

Charles is sure that he'll wonder at that later, but for now he's far from certain that he'll remember unlocking his door and falling into bed. It is just slightly possible that he's overdone it a bit.


	3. Chapter 3a  California, Day 1

Well, he'd wanted a change from the staggering silence of the Mountain West, and he's certainly got it. Maybe it's worse and maybe it's better, the surging tides of excitement and agony in a baseball crowd keyed up for a possible playoff run, shot through with undercurrents of suspicion their neighbors bring to bear on the allegedly beatnik Erik and his scruffy student companion. Unfriendly thoughts, tinged with snatches of suspicion about UC Berkley, treason – what on earth is that about – and, well, _that,_ hard eyes watching as Erik leans companionably close and steals Cracker Jacks from the box in Charles' lap. He keeps trying to gently redirect their attention, plant some warmer feelings in place of suspicion, but it's cursedly difficult to manage on top of all of the other demands on his attention.

The air around him surges with indignation and he shouts "Come _on_," without really meaning to. Erik smirks at him and Charles shifts in his seat, tries to firm up the shields in his mind without checking his search for the mutant that he's hoping against hope comes here regularly and wasn't just out for a game on a lark when Charles happened to be plugged into Cerebro. "That was clearly a strike."

The unfriendly thoughts recede a little before returning double-strength when Erik mutters, "I thought you barely knew the rules." Charles doesn't even try to check his aggrieved sigh.

Oh, thank god. There it is, a twinge that's becoming wonderfully familiar. But where… Ah. Two rows down, slinging bags of peanuts with an unerring accuracy no matter what theatrical touches he brings to the throw.

"May I?" He hopes their neighbors assume he's re-staking his rightful claim on the Cracker Jacks – Erik's eaten well over half the box, honestly, he should have just got one for himself – but Erik knows better and inclines his head in smirking acquiescence. _That's him. Or that's somebody, at least._ Erik subtly surveys the crowd. _The gentleman flinging peanuts,_ Charles nudges. _A very minor telekinesis, I fear._

_Let's try to catch him at the top of the row,_ Erik thinks, far too loudly, frowning when Chares doesn't quite contain his wince, but shifts his knees anyway, jostling the portly gentleman crammed into the too-small wooden seat in front of his. "I don't know about you, but I could do with a walk."

"All right," Charles agrees, heartily returning the general aura of good riddance rising from their seat-neighbors.

They wait – well, lurk, really, and Charles feels the dubious glances of passerby pressing on him with an almost physical weight – in the alcove at the top of the stairs, marking the boundary between stadium seating and superstructure, while their target – target, honestly, Erik really is rubbing off on him – slowly ascends the stairs.

The man startles as Erik melts out of the shadows at him, smile a bit too predatory. "I'll take a bag."

"Sure thing," the man says, and tosses the peanuts with a grin. Erik's smile sharpens as he sends a quarter skidding in a neat little loop around the airborne peanuts before it lands, unerring, in the man's hand.

Charles figures that's his cue. "I'm Charles Xavier, and this gentleman," Erik dips his head, still grinning his stark grin, "is Erik Lehnsherr. We're like you."

"Like me," the man says slowly, testing it out.

"Mutants," Erik supplies, raising an eyebrow at the man's blank look. "Surely you didn't think your little talent was all in the wrist."

Charles can feel the tendrils of defensiveness – _little talent, who is this guy_- and hastily steps in to the silence. "People with special abilities. There are many of us – more than you'd expect."

"Ok." The man exhales shakily. "So what do you want?"

"Right now we're.. Well, we're recruiting. There's a group of us up in Virginia learning how to use our… talents, how to control them. All expenses paid, of course, and a bit on top of that. If you like, you'd be welcome to join us." There's hesitation, yes, but curiosity, hope too. "You obviously don't have to decide now. We're staying – Erik, where are we staying?"

"The Jack Tar."

The man lets out a low whistle. "Pretty swank digs."

"You're not kidding," Erik grins, fishing a pen out of the pocket of his impossibly narrow slacks. "Charles, do you have one of those cards?"

"Right," he says, patting the pockets of his jacket. Ah, there we go. "Here."

Erik scribbles the hotel name on the card. "We'll be in town for a couple of days if you'd like to talk. Ask for Charles Xavier."

The man reaches for the card. It hasn't escaped Charles' attention that he hasn't offered his name. It seems… wrong, somehow, to fish for it. "The other number – that will reach us in Virginia if it takes you a bit longer to decide."

"Thanks," he says, tucking the card in his pants pocket. "Gotta get going before the inning break."

Charles can sense the trace of discomfort that says further conversation won't be welcome. "Go Giants," he offers, and the man tips his cap.

Charles lets out a long breath. "Well, that wasn't an outright no, in any case."

"Progress," Erik says, smiling with too many teeth. "Shall we?"

"Oh, let's." It will be a great relief to get out of this swamp of excitement, even if his full shields have tamped it down to a dull roar.

Erik is silent as they make their way down the stairs and out of the stadium. Charles can't say he isn't grateful. The strange uses he's been putting his brain to over the past few days have left him a bit off-balance, to put it mildly.

Erik speeds up a bit as they approach the car, and Charles summons up just enough energy to be annoyed that he's claimed the driver's seat yet again. "What now?" he asks as he settles a hand on the clutch, mouth turning up the corners.

Charles almost forgets to be annoyed. "It's our first failure to fail. I'd say that calls for a drink."

"All right, but let's mix business with pleasure. How about a drink in…" Erik reaches across to the glove box, warm elbow jostling Charles' middle as he fishes for the notes. "Haight-Ashbury," he reads, places a neat check-mark next to the stadium's address.

"Why not?" Charles fusses with the map and Erik snatches it with an impatient huff, fingers dancing over side streets.

"You're the pilot and the navigator, then?" he teases, and Erik favors him with an amused grin. "I'm starting to worry that I'm entirely superfluous."

"I'd think you'd be used to being chauffeured around." That raises a frown and Erik chuckles. "Now, now, don't sulk. We've things to discuss. Such as our new friend's," Erik purrs the word with mocking emphasis, "name and address."

"I didn't look." Charles shrugs. A missed opportunity, certainly, but, well, the man obviously hadn't wanted them to know.

"Your discretion is admirable, if entirely inconsistent. Or perhaps I should say consistently inconvenient. What _am_ I going to do with you?"

"Chauffeur me to Haight-Ashbury, I suppose," and Erik's outright laugh settles over him, warm and pleasant.

San Francisco is a beautiful city, funny little houses held up by sheer stubbornness against the slump of steep hills. Even the horrible smell of the horrible engine in their horrible car as it labors to navigate the inclines can't take the charm out of it. Erik could do something about that, Charles supposes, but isn't, probably out of sheer spite. Damned if he's going to mention it. He's had quite enough teasing about his "unwillingness to tolerate the base realities of physical existence" for one day, thanks awfully, and Erik's pleased little hums as he watches the scenery (or, more likely, spots the street signs he's looking for) are far more pleasant.

Those charming little houses are taking a turn for the seedy the farther they go and Charles suspects he'll have to abandon his hopes for a decent scotch. Perhaps better to start with beer anyhow, especially since they are still on the clock, as it were.

Of course, Erik pulls to a stop across from the seediest bar imaginable. Perhaps it's for the best that only a masochist would steal their whale of a car. At least they'll blend in here, for once, or Erik will – the people drifting in and out share Erik's penchant for black-on-black-on-turtleneck, if not his precise carriage. Well. Dignity is hardly the first concern for the beret-wearing classes, he supposes.

"Your destination, sir," Erik proffers with a thin-lipped smile.

"Shall I wait for you to come hand me out of the car?" he laughs, and Erik's grin widens.

"You'll be waiting for a long time."

"In that case," he pops the door and spills out into the street. Erik catches him up, speeding up just enough to hold the bar door for him with a mocking flourish. "Thank you, my good man," he says as loftily as he can, spoiling the effect with a snort.

They're confronted with a sea of girls with plain faces and long, lank hair, airily blowing smoke into the faces of their severely-dressed suitors. The close air of the bar is clogged with the stuff, not all of it smelling like cigarette. "Best not stay too long," he murmurs.

Erik smirks. "I'll say. I've seen you drunk." He's already feeling too mellow to be properly indignant and allows Erik to steer him to an ill-lit little excuse for a table near the bar, tatty folding chairs creaking under even his slight weight. "Save our spot," Erik commands, setting out toward the bar, and Charles turns his attention back toward the room, lets the burble of surprisingly erudite conversation wash over him. The beat poets, of course, but that is a fascinating interpretation of Kerouac…

The shock of a cold glass against his hand brings him back to himself. "Thanks." He raises the glass to be clinked and Erik obliges him with an amused huff, folding his long legs awkwardly to accommodate the low-slung table. He takes a long swallow and… Something's not right, gritty against the roof of his mouth. He raises the glass and peers at the bottom and, sure enough, there's a little red pill, gathering bubbles as it melts into his rather watery beer. "Oh dear."

Erik raises an eyebrow at the bartender, who mouths "You're welcome" and winks – actually _winks_. Who does that? Erik, apparently, if his eyes are to be believed.

"Perhaps we'd better conclude our business," Erik says, once the barman's attention has wandered. "I don't know if you'll want to be drinking all of that, though I'm sure it would be delightful."

"Quite right." It's going to be fine, he's sure – whatever-it-is hardly had time to melt, let alone migrate all the way through his drink. It will be just fine. Still – something's curling in the pit of his stomach, and he can't be absolutely sure… Best not to dawdle. He puts fingers to his temple, casual, and throws his mind wide in what's becoming a practiced gesture.

Bad idea. _Very_ bad idea. The minds around him are in various degrees of disintegration, pulling at him, seductive and strange, filling him up. Shocking snatches of sensation – who is that in the restroom, sucking a stranger's sleeve with total abandon, why – oh, _oh_… Two men, _two men_, leaning across their table and underneath it, oh… He wrenches away but the rest of the milieu is almost _worse_ - altered minds too friendly by half, questing outwards and he could hurt – they'll surely feel, at the very least, if he slams his shields up, pulls back into himself too quickly…

Erik's concerned hand lights on his wrist and it's too warm, zinging over his skin with an unfamiliar and unnatural clarity. Easier, though, to focus on that point, that warm, warm pressure and reel himself back in ever so slowly.

"Oh dear," Charles gasps, unable to prevent an unfamiliar giggle from bubbling out of him. Everything feels so _strange._ "Oh, _dear._"

"I think we'd better go," and the crinkles around Erik's compressed lips are _fascinating._ Charles obediently gets his legs underneath him – is this always so _hard_ and Erik's giving him a hand up, letting that hand slip to the small of Charles' back. "This way."

He can feel the warmth from Erik's hand rippling up his back like rings on a pond, just this side of scorching. "You've got to walk, Charles," and the ripples intensify, surging warm waves as that hand presses harder.

Suddenly they're out of doors, outside of a car, their car. Charles stares numbly as Erik murmurs something about handing him in after all and that hand is gone and he can't bear it, he _can't_ and clutches for it clumsily with a cry.

"Honestly, Charles, I'll need that to drive," Erik says and gently shakes him off, but then both hands are on him, pressing him into the car and arranging his legs for him. He's distantly embarrassed by his loose limbs but it doesn't matter because Erik is _gone_, warm hand is _gone_ and…

And then he's back, but still too far from Charles. Erik chuckles helplessly as Charles scrambles over on the seat until he's pressed up against the warm safety Erik offers. "All right," he whispers, and runs that divine hand over Charles' head. "You're all right."

Then the engine is rattling to life and Erik's mind is rattling right along with it, the car is shaking around him and it's all a little too much – scratch that, far too much, he still feels like he's floating. He's got to focus, focus, right, focus on the warmth, focus…

There. And now his embarrassment is not so distant; he's sprawled ungracefully across the bulk of the seat, shoulder digging into Erik's middle and both hands clutched in the poor man's shirt. Charles loosens his death grip and rights himself, sheepish and slow. "Right. Sorry about that."

"I rather suspect you couldn't help it," and Erik's smile has a secret edge to it that Charles is not at all up to investigating right now. "Are you all right? You look a little…" He gestures vaguely at Charles' stomach, which lurches as if summoned.

"I'll manage," he gasps, voice still unfamiliar outside of his head.

The secret smile is replaced by a more familiar worry. "I'll pull over…"

"I'll manage," Charles repeats, a little more firmly.

"We're nearly there," Erik says, soothing. Something flickers over his face, there and gone again, and he runs a ginger hand over Charles' hair. Charles is still shaky enough to let his eyes slip closed at the grounding sensation.

Soon enough, he feels enough like himself to sit fully upright and a good thing, too, because Erik is pulling up to the hotel. He tosses the keys to a waiting valet. "I thought you hated…"

Erik's teasing chuckle is welcome, familiar. "I can't face the prospect of wrestling you through a parking lot."

"That's one wrestling match you'd win," he says, and Erik's frown smoothes as he takes in Charles' shaky smile.

"I suspect we'd both lose." His hand lands, unobtrusive, on Charles' elbow. Of all the embarrassing things… At least he's weaving like a drunk, drawing indulgent smiles from the girls at the check-in desk as Erik steers him through the lobby and into an elevator.

"Sorry," he repeats, drawing his arms in close. "I don't know what's got into me."

"I'm guessing it's something more than one mouthful of little red pill." Erik sounds different in sympathy, feels different.

Charles runs a hand through his – ugh- surprisingly sweaty hair. "I should have realized. I've never… All of those altered minds…"

"Ah," Erik says, steering him out of the elevator, ignoring Charles' attempts to shake him off. "They don't party like that at Oxford, I suppose."

That startles him into a shaky laugh. "Not in my circle, no." He leans against the wall as Erik fumbles with the lock. "I should have thought…"

"As far as I'm aware, you don't count predicting the future among your many talents. You couldn't have known." Click. There goes the door. "It's been quite a week. I'd wager that you'd have done a little better if you weren't half exhausted from all of the experimenting you've got up to."

Charles can feel his mouth taking on a mulish set, but the man's probably right. He's still steering Charles, depositing him in the brightly-lit bathroom. "Cold water," Erik suggests mildly and leaves him to it.

The shock of it splashing against his face does wonders, forcing him into the here and now. He's still a bit shaky – a cold shower would do wonders, but he's ashamed to admit that he's half-worried he'd fall halfway through it. Perhaps discretion is the better part of valor here.

The valet has helpfully hung his pajamas on the back of the bathroom door. They're soft, comforting, even if they are suffused with the lingering smell of pine and sleep-sweat. They'll have to see about laundry one of these days.

If Erik is hovering outside the bathroom door, they both choose to ignore it. "I'll be calling it an early night, I'm afraid."

"If we weren't staying another night, I'd be very angry at you for depriving me of this hotel's excellent bar."

"You could go," Charles calls over his shoulder, retreating to the nearer of the room's big beds.

Erik pokes his head out the bathroom door, toothbrush in hand. "You'll pardon me if I don't want to leave a possibly-drugged telepath on his own."

"I'm fine," Charles says rebelliously, but Erik is ignoring him if the rush of the tap is anything to go by. He clambers into the big, soft bed, nestling down in crisp linens. His brain's still buzzing, but only just, and the edges of exhaustion are creeping up around the corners of his consciousness.

He's half-asleep by the time Erik emerges and clicks off the light. There's a motion at the edge of the bed and… What? Erik is perched on the edge of the bed, prodding his shoulder. "Scoot over. I'd prefer the side by the wall, if you don't mind."

"The good people at the hotel have helpfully provided us with two beds," Charles points out.

Erik emits one of his trademark annoyed huffs. "It seemed to help," and his warm hand closes over Charles' shoulder. "Am I wrong?"

"No," Charles admits, and he'll be hideously embarrassed by this later, he's sure of it, but the edge of wariness that Erik usually projects is lost, replaced by a wonderful swirl of worry and comfort that he can't bring himself to dispel. Even if – especially if, a traitorous part of his mind whispers – he doesn't really _need_ it anymore.

"Then scoot." Charles obliges and Erik slips under the sheets next to him, lying flat on his back with the hot lines of his arm and leg pressed loosely against Charles. "There. Is that so very terrible?"

"No," Charles says, and he's sure Erik can hear the _thank you_ in his soft voice. Warm emotions lap gently over him and he counts Erik's steady breaths, predictable and calming, until he slips into sleep.

**A/N:** I am hoping nobody minds the break from my one-day-in-one-state-per-chapter formatting. My research and ideas for Our Heroes in California kind of ran away with me, and poor Charles was a bit too seasick to cram much more into this segment. I debated just putting all of California into one massive chapter, but that was ungainly and made for weird transitions. So, um, bear with me. :)


	4. Chapter 3b:  California, Day 2

Well, at least it's a polite sort of chaos. He's tossed and turned the night away, apparently, but only, ridiculously, on his half of the bed. Even the bottom sheet is pulled free of the frankly sinful mattress, and somehow or other he's rolled himself the top cover around himself twice, tight enough that his arms are pinned and it will be difficult to extricate himself without waking Erik who has not, apparently, moved an inch since he settled in, the remaining covers flat and undisturbed over his tranquil form. He'll just shift a bit, wriggle gently until his arms are free and then he's sure he can extricate himself. Just a bit more…

And so of course he's gone and dumped himself on the floor. "Oh, hell," he creaks, and Erik is suddenly upright, edge of violence melting straight into a hearty laugh as he takes in the situation.

"Good morning," Erik says, still laughing, and Charles can't help but dissolve into chuckles himself.

"In a manner of speaking," he manages, but at least he's free to roll his way out of the coverlet now. He can't bring himself to mind his own ridiculousness when Erik is smirking like that, warm and open. "I hope I didn't, err…" he gestures at the wreck he's made of the right side of the bed.

"I didn't notice." Erik has every right to sound surprised.

Charles brushes a sheepish hand through his hair. "I'll just… Right." And then he's up and a long shower will be just the ticket, rinse away the last prickles of whatever it was he'd gotten himself into.

The hot water is shamefully delightful, spraying from an enormous showerhead in hard pulses that are almost loud enough to drown out the din of a bustling hotel. He's almost sorry to get out, but by the time he brushes his teeth and scrapes a razor over his chin – can Erik feel that? Can he ask if Erik feels that? – he feels quite human again.

Erik is presiding over an enormous tray of danishes when Charles emerges, a large "with our complements" card dangling from his long fingers. "You've made quite an impression on the desk staff," he grins, all teeth, raising an amused eyebrow at Charles and he's suddenly aware that the fluffy hotel robe is much, much too large for him.

"I could certainly use the fortification," he says with as much dignity as he can muster, appropriating the crustiest of the apple danishes.

Erik gives him a sidelong glance. "Cracker Jacks do not a dinner make."

"I wasn't in much of a state for soufflé." Curse his damned complexion – he knows he's coloring. Well, in for a penny. "Thank you, by the way."

"Can't have the designated detective burning out on me," Erik says, suddenly intent on the tray. Charles watches with horrified fascination as he selects one cream cheese and one raspberry, smooshing the two together into a makeshift sandwich. "What?"

Charles grins, pointedly not looking at the greasy monstrosity Erik is calling his breakfast. "I'll have you know that Cracker Jacks are an American institution, and I'm proud to call them my dinner."

"Ach," Erik huffs, somehow managing to take an elegant bite of his decidedly inelegant sandwich.

Charles makes short work of his own pastry, and Erik turns a gimlet eye on him. "Eat up. It's not as though there's a shortage."

"Tyrant," he mutters, but doesn't mean it; he's ravenous, truth be told, and his stomach, miraculously enough, shows no signs of rebelling against the sugar he's packing into it.

"Can't have you collapsing." Erik's fond tone takes the sting out of the reminder that Charles has recently spent quite a bit of time doing just that. He smirks, stealing the last cherry danish and folding it neatly in half. Charles raises an eyebrow. "It's efficient. And not half so sticky."

"If you say so, my friend." Erik's eyebrow raises in turn as though Charles' nibbling is terribly dainty, as though the entire Western world doesn't treat danishes as a dish to be nibbled instead of folded into great fat sandwiches that would only fit in Erik's wide gash of a mouth.

"I do." Erik is frowning at his sandwich. "And to that end…"

"I'll be fine," Charles says, a touch too swiftly. "We'll just stay away from places like…"

Erik's face is set, stubborn. "We'll stay away from places, full stop." He cuts off the protests Charles was planning to make with a sharp gesture. "I mean it. I need you at full strength," and that doesn't sound like the end of the sentence.

Charles could fill in the blanks without his gifts – _I need you at full strength in Las Vegas._ There's the slimmest of chances that Shaw would revisit a hideout he knows to be compromised, that he hadn't eradicated every last trace and defense, but small chance does not mean no chance and this, this means everything to Erik – even more, and Charles hates it but he knows, he _knows_- even more than the quest to discover and help more of their own kind. "All right," Charles hears himself saying, hating the slightly sick sound of his own voice and the way it makes the corners of Erik's mouth turn down.

"Come now, it won't be as bad as all that." Erik folds himself out from under the too-short table. "You can catch up on your reading. Give that remarkable brain a different kind of workout."

Charles lets himself smile, something in his belly unknotting when Erik returns it. "And what will you do?"

"I'm going out," and Charles squawks at the injustice of that and Erik raises both hands, placating. "Just for a bit. I've got an errand to run."

"What kind of errand?"

"Ah," he says, and his smile takes on a giddy conspirator's edge. "That would be telling." He flashes extra teeth. "You'll like it, I promise you." Charles grumbles, but Erik's grin doesn't waver. "You scoff now, Charles…"

He _is_ tired, and Erik is seldom so enthusiastic, and, well… "Fine, fine."

"That's the spirit." Erik claps him on the shoulder, curls his hand around it in an echo of the steady comfort he'd provided last night.

Comfort and concern and excitement crackle across Charles' mind, overwhelming the last of his irritation. "At least promise me you'll visit the Golden Gate Bridge while you're out? One of us ought to enjoy the city, at least."

"Yes," Erik says, his expression terribly, wonderfully warm, "I believe I will."

XXXXXXXX

It seems like an awful lot of trouble to open his eyes, even if he can't quite remember closing them. It's warm, and aside from the crick in his neck he's perfectly comfortable. Well, the crick in his neck and the increasingly forceful prodding in his side. "Really, Charles. I'm beginning to regret encouraging your shameful sloth."

"Resting was your idea," Charles says, or tries to, several words lost to a yawn.

"Yes, well." Erik prods his side again and Charles lurches closer to upright. "I've tired of waiting for my rematch."

"Rematch?" Charles is properly awake now, hauling himself the rest of the way upright on the hotel sofa to find that Erik's shoved – floated, more likely – the white metal table over to Charles. There's a funny little scrap of leather rolled out on top of it. Charles blinks the last sleep from his eyes and discovers that it's covered in cunning little round scraps of hide emblazoned with chessmen. "Where on earth…" Erik shrugs one elegant shoulder; Charles regards him with a touch of alarm. If this mysterious errand took Erik to a safari supply store, Charles shudders to think about what the road's got in store for them these next few days.

"If you're not feeling up to it…" Even if he weren't being presented with his favorite pastime, Erik's diffident disappointment would have sold him in seconds.

"I suppose we are on a safari of sorts," Charles muses without thinking, and of course Erik stiffens - that was a remarkably stupid thing to say. "A game would be lovely," he adds hastily. "Black or white? Er, brown?"

"Black," Erik says shortly, jaw set as he lays out the pieces.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you always make me open in a nefarious attempt to make me reveal my strategy," Charles says, trying for teasing.

He's rewarded with a marginal give in the hard line of Erik's shoulders, an amused snort as Erik gestures at his rather monochromatic outfit. "As though I need the help. Heaven help us if you ever decide to try your hand at poker."

"I'll have you know it's a dab hand," and there's that snort again. "Keep that up and I'll demand to defend my honor at the tables."

"That's all we need," Erik grumbles, but his tone is good natured. "I think they'd take exception to a man of your… talents," he taps his head, "at the casinos."

"I would never," Charles says, laying on the righteousness. Erik huffs at him, and the awkwardness is well and truly dispersed. "Even if I needed to. Which I don't."

"I'll believe that when I see it," Erik says, glancing meaningfully at the rather standard opening Charles has been setting up. "And probably not even then."

"You wound me," Charles says, grinning as he captures a pawn.

His grin fades as Erik mops up one of his knights. "I'll take that as an assurance that you're not cheating now."

"Of course not. That would spoil the fun." And it _is_ fun, even if Erik is making mincemeat of his front line. All to good purpose, of course, but…

A few more moves, and then it's Erik's turn to grumble when a rook joins the little pile of discards at the side of the board. "And I'm meant to believe you're not eavesdropping."

"And I repeat, I would never."

"I distinctly remember giving permission," Erik says, dryly.

"And I distinctly remember promising not to pluck specifics from you." Erik's turned that curious, intense glance on him again. "I can't hear what you're planning. Just that you think you're terribly clever."

Erik laughs at that, a curiously open sound. "I am terribly clever. That's check."

"So it is." He'd like to blame the hash he's made of this game on fatigue, but he's been rushing his moves and Erik is ruthlessly good at this. Perhaps…

"And that's mate." Erik is just short of smug, but he's earned it – Charles hasn't lost so fast in a decade and change.

He's almost alarmed to find that he's smiling too as he flicks the little disk with his king on it over it Erik's side of the board. "Enjoy it while you can. I invoke the sacred rite of rematch."

Erik looks at him through slitted eyes. "I had something else in mind. Although," he frowns at the board, "if that was any indication of your mental state…"

"See how well you play five minutes after you've woken up unexpectedly." That appraising look is still there. "I assure you, my mental state is absolutely fine."

Erik raises a placating hand. "It's just… I was thinking…" He turns a hard stare on Charles. "Tell me, how much would it take out of you to ride along?" He taps a temple.

Curse his penchant for honestly. "Hardly anything, if I'm not trying to be subtle about it." And of course Erik's shoulders twitch back at that, but he looks… relieved, as well. Ah, yes. Of course he's always alert for any sign of Charles' tells.

"No need for subtlety," Erik mutters, fingers clenching around one of the leather disks. "All right," he says suddenly, decisively, reaching for the shopping bag he'd shoved under his chair, spills a Newton's cradle out on the desk. "Come on in," and he's tapping at his temple again. "But if I find out that this is draining for you…"

"It's simple," Charles says, too quick, and Erik pulses with mild alarm. "It won't tire me out. And I'll… I'll stay where I'm welcome, of course."

"So it's not all or nothing," Erik says, and there's that edge of excitement, of wonder, rippling over him again.

"You were going to, even if it were?" And he really shouldn't have vocalized that, he's lost Erik's eyes, but that's answer enough isn't it, and… and… _Hello_, he says, before Erik can think the better of this.

Erik starts, then draws himself into a braced, ready stance. _All right,_ he says, and Charles finds himself at the center of a whirlwind, rage and grief and excitement and tingling power swirling, buffeting, and oh, _oh,_ that terrible face, cold smile that doesn't reach the eyes, the sick thud of fists wrapped in metal pummeling thin ribs, come on Erik, stop me Erik, white hot emotions rising, cresting and the room's alight around him, dizzying lines of force he can feel, he can almost see, he can – Erik can – touch, push, clutch and strum, send the Newton cradle to clacking, send the second ball from the side floating above its mates, send the balls to weaving in a dizzying dance and the whole set swirling as quick as the invisible lines that were always pressing around it, thin and cutting like gripping guitar strings.

_Oh,_ he says and Erik startles, drops the lines he's been clutching and the set clatters to a stop. They're both panting, Charles' lungs taking on a borrowed rhythm, and he starts to extricate himself without being asked. He'd reached out at some point, hands clenched tight on the table's edge, tight enough that they're stiff and painful to release. Somewhere along the line he'd started crying, just a little, but enough to make his face damp and Erik's staring at him, something unfamiliar in his face, something zinging through the mess of power, wonder, deep grief, deeper anger. "Oh, Erik," he manages, out loud this time, and there's a thumb on his cheek, brushing at the tears. _What you can do is amazing,_ he wants to say. _The way you can feel the world is so beautiful. I am so sorry, my friend, so, so sorry_, but he can't say any of that, not without sending Erik reeling back from him faster than light. He settles for, "you're amazing;" it has the virtue of being perfectly true.

Erik's thumb stills, expression flashing from wary to wonder to determined and before Charles can really get a handle on what's happening there's a powerful, distinct welling up of _something_ and Erik shoves himself forward, presses that thumb into Charles' cheekbone, fingers cupping around his jaw, too hard, a little a painful, brain filling up with _wantgoodscaredsogood_ and it's almost too much, it _is_ too much and somehow Charles is tilting his head harder into those fingers, hot points of pain and emotion and he thinks he knows where this is going and oh yes…

And then just like that, it's over. Erik shoves himself back, hard enough to send his chair skittering a bit against the floor. "I need to go for a walk," he says and Charles knows that to be true, if the thunderstorm of emotions raging around him is perturbing to Charles, oh, what it must be firsthand… And oh, Charles wants to lay him down and pet him and chase the clouds away but it's quite obvious that he'd only be making it worse.

"You'll come back?" he says, and hates that his voice is so plaintive.

"You could make me." At least Erik's voice is… well, not shaking, but _breathless,_ almost, even around that challenge.

"I won't."

Erik nods, his smile almost genuine. "I know," he says, and that hits Charles harder than anything else somehow but then, of course, he's gone.

XXXXXXXX

"Let's go," Erik says, leaning on the half-open door casual as anything, as though Charles hasn't been stewing in his itchy skin with the hot press of fingertips driving a confusion deeper than he knows what to do with for almost two hours.

"All right," he says, and Erik is determinedly not noticing his less than steady voice.

Their silent walk to the elevator is trapped in the same dizzying zone of casual discomfort, the ding of the bell too loud. Charles wants desperately to say something, anything, but now's not the time for a strategy meeting and god knows he can't say what he'd really like to. "How was the Golden Gate?" There. Neutral. Sort of. And he does want to know. Does it sing like a Newton's cradle? Or is there something special in all of the magnetization of that little contraption, missing from the big bulk of a bridge? Are the lines around it ropes, or still guitar strings? Does Erik think of them like that, or does he simply feel, and it's Charles who's layered on metaphor quite different from Erik's own perceptions?

"Large. And red." Erik smiles, lips thin.

"Honestly," Charles huffs, and Erik raises his hands, roiling with desire to calm and to defend in equal measure.

"I can tell you're just buzzing with questions. I should probably be grateful that the CIA's sprung for another plane ride, or I'd have no peace in the car, I can tell."

He sounds a little resentful and Charles has to keep himself from bristling. It's Erik who started this, Erik who let him in but it's not all or nothing, is it, Charles said so himself. "I see how it is," he says, trying for easy and joking. "Going to keep me in public places until I run off on another track."

Erik gives him a startled look. Oh dear. Too close, and now they're pouring out of the elevator into the lobby and this is not the time nor the place. "Tell me there's food at the bar," he tries. "I could use a little bolstering up."

The taut storm that is Erik subsides, marginally, and he looks almost grateful. "I'm sure we could scare something up. Do you think our expense budget stretches to steak?"

"Never know till we try," he says, and Erik returns his grin.

Another interminable elevator but the awkwardness is mostly gone now, replaced with Erik's quiet snicker at Charles' growling stomach. "You are the noisiest creature," he purrs, and Charles' mind wants to take that and run right in the direction of fingertips and warmth and, and.

He wrestles himself back to respectability. "I was never much for stealth."

"Aren't you?" Erik's smile is sharp now, knowing. "Harmless little Charles, with his tweeds and his voice and his happy little smiles. He'd never, even if he could."

"Oh, I'm the danger?" Charles crowds out of the elevator a mite too fast. "I have several close encounters with the car door that would say otherwise."

"Psssh," Erik hisses but thankfully drops it, goes about arranging their table in this absurd modern bar. Everything's white and baby blue and glass and it's beautiful and hilarious in equal measure, like drinking in a spaceship.

Erik's amused glace as he surveys the place says he agrees. "The hostess was kind enough to call down to the dining room. I took the liberty of ordering."

"Thank you, I hope."

"Medium rare should suit you, I hope."

"You know I don't…" Charles grumbles.

"I know you don't," Erik repeats, voice all obnoxious needles. "I'm afraid a salad and a jacket potato are all they can scare up for you from the steakhouse. They said there was bacon in the green beans."

"Thank you," Charles says, chilly, as though that could stop Erik laughing at him.

"At least you can wash it down with some celestial scotch." At least Erik has it in him to tease something other than Charles. Still, this is likely to be a very tiring evening.

It's times like this that he's tempted to cheat – more than tempted, actually, to give the hostess a little nudge. No need to be a brute about it; he amps up the wattage of his smile and turns it flush on her. "Thank you for taking the trouble, love," he says, and she returns a warm smile. "I don't suppose we could sit by the window? It's my first time in San Francisco and I'd like to take in the view."

"Sure," she says, giggling a bit. "You're lucky – got in before the evening rush."

"You could just," Erik mutters, wiggling his fingers.

"I thought about it," he admits with a soft grin, and the hostess' smile cools several degrees, "but I just can't face another long walk just to see it, you know? Even if it is famous," he adds, entirely for her benefit, careful to be wide-eyed and not lascivious in the least and there's that good cheer back again, now that they aren't promising to be trouble.

Erik gives him a bemused look but the stellar little enclave right by the window that they're given shuts him up, as does the veritable library of liquors cascading down the print menu. They're still perusing in itchy silence when a pretty brunette in an absurd little uniform saunters up. "So, gentlemen, what'll it be?"

Erik is clearly on the verge of saying something smarmy and Charles kicks him under the table; he knows all too well from Raven's waitressing stories that it won't do to upset the servers so early in the evening. "I'm a bit floored by your selection, to be honest. I'll take the barman's recommendation for a scotch." She's about to ask his price range. "Expensive will be fine, but not _alarming_."

"Understood," she says, giggle too near a snort to be entirely charming.

Erik evidently agrees. "I'll have three fingers of the Glenlivet, neat," he says without waiting to be asked.

Charles rolls his eyes in a what-can-you-do sort of way and she smiles a conspirator's smile at him and whisks away their menus.

"You're an incorrigible flirt," Erik says with something that might be amusement, or might be something else entirely. He's still a bit jumbled up, damnably hard to read.

"Yes, well, will flirt for service," Charles tries and there's that edged grin again.

_I'll have to remember that_, in his head, clear as day.

Charles' mouth drops open. "Is that… Are you… Are you doing that _deliberately_?"

"What do you think?" Erik says oh, oh, he looks positively _dangerous_. "Should I stop?"

"No need," Charles says, and Erik chuckles at his haste.

"So eager," Erik teases and Charles knows he's flushing because that must, _must_ be deliberate.

"Yes, well," he says, purposefully obtuse, "I don't get the chance to have this kind of conversation too often," he says, wriggling his fingers near his head.

"That's a pity," Erik says in his dangerous purr, and Charles isn't the only one "misunderstanding."

"I'd be happy to get in the practice," he says, more boldly than he feels, just in case.

_Would you, now_, and it's exciting even though Erik can't quite control his tone, more exclamatory than sly.

"I think so," and perhaps he sounds a little breathless, but perhaps he deserves to. Erik is smiling his shark's smile and Charles has wondered, of course he's wondered, he'd taken in enough in the water to know that Erik has more in common with him than even the grooviest of mutations, but it was so mixed up with anger and fear that he'd thought… But that's still there, isn't it. Oh, how he wants to plunge right in and rummage around, find out what Erik's playing at, if he's playing at all, if he's serious. It's so much harder this way, halfway.

"More excitement than you're used to?" Erik asks, like he's the one who can read minds.

"A bit," he admits, and Erik seems a bit disarmed by that.

"A bit of mystery is good for you." Well then. A bit disarmed, more than a bit smug.

"Honing my detective skills," and that summons up another dangerous smile.

Erik's reply is deferred by the arrival of their scotch. "Give it a try," and the waitress smiles, a hint of sauce in her tone.

He swirls the scotch – nice body, more than a hint of peat to it as it warms against his hand. He tastes with a little more tongue than is strictly necessary and is gratified that Erik's eyes flick to it as well as the waitress'. "Mmmm."

"I won't need to switch it out, then," she half-purrs, and Erik watches his satisfied smile.

"Definitely not, love. It's delightful, thank you." She smiles, saunters away, more switch in her hips than there had been, and Erik is watching, too, watching him watch her unless he misses his wager.

"That was quite a display," Erik says, damnably neutral.

"Yes, well, it's quite the scotch," and perhaps his voice is a shade deeper than usual. "Care to try some?"

"Don't mind if I do," and Erik appropriates the glass. It doesn't escape Charles' notice that he sips from the same side Charles had, that he finishes with a slow swipe of his tongue across his lower lip as though to catch a stray drop.

He's already tired of this bizarre dance they're doing. It's too much, this, now, with the specter of Vegas hanging over their heads, the half-leashed violence of earlier. He's more than a little afraid that this is a wrongheaded tactic, unconscious or otherwise, to assert some kind of control on him and wouldn't that be a pretty disaster for the both of them. Erik is wrong – he's not one for subtlety, not when he's flying half-blind and directness has a better chance of settling the question or at least startling his opponent – partner? – into yielding up new clues. "This is new," he tries.

"I'm not entirely sure that it is," Erik says, hands him the glass. Their fingers don't brush, much as he's tempted to grip the glass sloppily.

"I'm not entirely sure that I mind," he allows. But, but. "I do wonder at the timing."

Erik's expression goes guarded. "So direct, Charles," he chides. "What did I say about mystery?"

"Yes, well." Charles shrugs, tries on an open smile. "Those never seem to end well, do they? I'd prefer to be on the same page."

Erik breaks eyes contact, takes a long swig of his scotch. Charles can't help but watch the line of his throat as he swallows. He's worryingly silent. Perhaps he's pushed too hard, pushed the wrong way. Perhaps he shouldn't be staring. He refocuses on the view, which at _is_ quite spectacular. The bar is starting to fill up around them, a soothing swirl of cheery leisure thoughts. This girl is worrying that the set of her hair will slip in the damp, that man is weighing his chances with the blonde on the third stool from the end – poor fellow, they aren't good, he'd be much better off to try the lady two seats down, and that older fellow needn't worry that he'd taken in too much sun and there will be a too-white patch where his wedding ring is wont to be, not with the way his date is eyeing up his Rolex. He lets himself sink into it, the slow burn of his scotch. It's pleasant. Distracting. Normal.

He's pretty far gone, so much so that the brush of fingers against his wrist catches him by surprise. "And if I told you we were on the same page?" Erik smirks at Charles' delighted smile. "I'm warning you, if your answer contains the word 'groovy,' I'll be forced to reconsider."

Charles lays his spare hand over his heart. "You wound me, Erik, you really do," and oh, that slow grin sets things to swirling in his belly. "I was going to say, in that case I like a bit of mystery very much." It's not even a lie; this little development tips them over from uncertainty into surprise and Erik, saturnine creature that he is… Well, it's much harder to repent of a slow course than a rushed conclusion, isn't it.

"Good," Erik purrs, soft enough that it's an invitation to lean closer.

An invitation that he can't take, what with the busboy approaching with Erik's steak and Charles' rather pathetic little salad. Erik's eyes stay on him, slow and heavy, enough that Charles has to nudge the poor server into incuriosity. Not that Charles minds, precisely, not with the way that confident smirk is scrambling up his spine.

But even Erik, it seems, has his limits. It's hard to cut up a steak seductively, but damned if he doesn't seem to be trying. The pooling grease and blood is stomach-churning, though, and the way it clings to Erik's teeth is the wrong side of predatory.

His distaste must show on his face, prompting Erik to laugh at him. "What's the matter, Charles? Afraid of a little blood?"

"I don't know how you do it," he admits, and Erik's smile persists around another savage bite.

"I don't now how you run on something like that," he returns, and Charles has to admit he has a point. His alleged salad is really a great wedge of lettuce, smothered in a sticky pool of ranch with a few haphazard pieces of cabbage and tomato sprinkled where the bacon ought to be.

"It beats the Cracker Jack." Erik raises a skeptical eyebrow, and Charles shrugs, grinning helplessly. "Not by much, I'll grant."

At least the jacket potato is good, smothered in salty butter and sharpened with a bit of chive. He's hyperconscious of Erik's eyes on him as he savors and swallows, even if he's willing to wager that "munching on a potato" is down near the bottom of the list of potentially sexy actions. At least it's got to rank higher than "swirling fries through the bloody mess on your steak plate," although, god help him, that doesn't damp his interest as much as it ought. He's further gone than he'd thought. Then again, it would take a strong man to resist the lure of that steady gaze, the press of intent strong enough to crowd out most of the ambient emotion in the bar, or maybe that's the scotch helping things along.

Mystery indeed, this curious staring match as they both make quick work of their dinners. Erik's foot is nudging his under the table, just slightly, little shocks of want zinging through him when their calves brush. "Another?" Erik asks, gesturing at his empty tumbler and bugger, now it's time to be responsible when all he wants to do is bump along on this river of interest and intent and hang slowness and sobriety both.

"I think I've had enough," he admits and Erik's smile goes sharp again.

_I beg to differ,_ and Charles half-gasps.

"Can't afford to be hungover tomorrow," he says, voice is blessedly steady and oh, there's a cold bath of reality again, a wash of nerves and violence and calculation swirling around with the more pleasant types of intent.

"Such a good soldier," but there's sharpness grating in Erik's purr and that's good, isn't it, it will make it easier to stick to his hastily constructed vow of restraint. And the images that word conjures up are not helpful. At all.

Erik grins, snaps for the check and their little waitress is either busy or has given up on them as a bad job – there she is, flirting with a gentleman in the corner, how nice – because it's the hostess that brings the bill. "Do make some time to go out and actually see the sights," and it's easy to smile at her frank friendliness as he signs it all to their room, the better to hide this extravagance in their expense report. "The harbor is lovely at night."

"I'll make a point of it," he promises, taking their leave with a cheery wave.

Erik doesn't spare a glance for her, of course, but the way those remarkable hands are hovering, longing to light somewhere on Charles, sends him speeding out of the bar before he's got to deflect public attention from a scandal. How he longs to let his shields drop, to feel the want zinging off of Erik fully instead of the muffled tastes he's getting when their arms brush in the now-crowded hallway, but oh what a bad idea that would be. His resolve is in shreds as it is, every atom in him singing for more and soon in the crowded elevator, the noisy lobby. He wants to clutch at the hands brushing his "accidentally" as they finally, finally get to the hall outside of their room but of course there's a middle-aged battleaxe thinking loudly about temperance and unruly youths rushing the country to damnation and then finally, finally they're inside. Erik shoves the door shut behind them the old-fashioned way and crowds Charles up against it quick as blinking, clutching too hard at his biceps and pressing him into the protruding lock, hip hard against the doorknob, can he feel the metal digging into Charles, does he like it and then oh, finally, finally, that harsh mouth on his, demanding, plundering and Charles' lips move like they belong to someone else, rushing from slow and soft to greedy nips without his permission and he shouldn't like the tang of blood left over from Erik's dinner half as much as he does, the near-bruising force of it all, the pushpushpush of _warmyeswantWANT_ pinning him in place as surely as Erik's implacable weight.

And then they're gasping for air as though by accord and he's got to stop this now if he's going to. Charles has never wanted anything less but it is very much for the best. Erik yields to his light shove, greedy fingers tugging on Charles' elbow, clear motion toward the beds and would it be so bad to just follow… "Tomorrow," he gasps, and oh, that's why, a startling rush of stealth and plans and white-hot anger wound round the rushrushrush of want isn't quite the bucket of ice water he'd anticipated. "Much as I'd enjoy," and he can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, Erik's fierce grin, "it will be… exhausting."

"I'm flattered," and how is he meant to resist that purr.

"I mean it," and he's almost whimpering, damn it, but he makes himself tap at his temple. "I can't… If we… I won't be fighting fit."

Erik drops his elbow at that, and that makes it easier to stumble around him, into the bathroom, into his damnable pajamas and maybe just this once he won't brush his teeth, slip off to sleep with the taste of Erik lingering on his tongue and on second thought that isn't likely to lead to much rest, now, is it.

Erik is prowling around outside the bathroom, drags those long, long fingers hard across Charles' stomach as he makes his way to sink, splashes his face with cold water. The shock of it doesn't clear the sharp press of want from his mind at all, or so little that Charles can't feel it and would it really be so bad…

Yes. Yes it would. He can't march into that city, that club, all burnt out and zinged up and it's apparent that if this happens – when, when, let this not be a whim or a ploy, please god – when this happens it's going to be something extraordinary and certainly tiring as all hell if he expects to keep his mind under any semblance of control.

He makes himself seal his mind tight as cellophane over leftovers, makes himself cross the room, lay out his clothes for the morning, ignore Erik's hot eyes as he shambles out of the bathroom and slips silently into the bed nearer the door. But he doesn't stop himself from darting over to that bed, leaning down to brush his lips over Erik's, quick as blinking, almost – not quite – chaste. "Tomorrow," he whispers, and the roiling clouds around Erik calm the tiniest bit.

"Tomorrow," Erik repeats, voice rough, and oh, it sounds like a promise.


	5. Chapter 4: Flight from SF to City of Sin

**A/N: **_This chapter goes out to kind reviewer Gabriel42, whose fun and detailed discussions inspired a plane-themed chapter!_

Chapter 4: Flight from San Francisco to the City of Sin

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This has got to be a form of torture.

At the moment, he doesn't care that the thought's unworthy of him. A man can only be expected to endure so much. It's growing impossible to ignore Erik's long thigh, splayed carelessly out into Charles' space, inescapable against Charles' own leg. Erik is unfairly elegant in his traveling clothes, suit pants holding their crease in spite of the foggy damp that'd worked its way inside the San Francisco airport as much as anywhere else in that ridiculous city. That alone would have been enough to distract anybody sane, but it's ever so much worse for Charles, forced to endure Erik's rumbling awareness of the metal tube they're currently occupying, all of the tiny parts and minute shifts in this or that that keep them aloft and pointed eastward against the wind, the way he catalogs each one, feels out whether it's doing what it's meant to do to counteract an endearing spate of nerves about flying which, in retrospect, is obvious as anything. It's minor torture for Erik as well, forced to place his physical safety in a stranger's hands, forced to accept that the only exits are quite impassable at this speed and of course he needs to know that he could control it in a pinch. The strange, seductive mechanisms of that control zip along Charles nerves, maddeningly out of reach unless he's willing to pry a little harder than he ought to under the terms of their truce. And then there's the flattering percentage of Erik's attention that's caught up in Charles, the smell of his soap and the way the fashionable suit that Raven and Moira had conspired to send him skim his figure in a way that his usual sweaters do not, the way his breath judders – ugh, how embarrassing – when Erik shifts that thigh. Which he does. Often. And worst of all, there's the shouldn't-be-thrilling undercurrents that keep teasing across the top layer of his thoughts, hints that he's working to feel Charles out like he's one the little shifting flaps in the wings of the plane. And that's if you leave the tick-tick-tick of Erik's planning out of it, the ways and means of looking for Shaw and somehow that's bound up with thoughts of Charles and oh, he wants to press in and find out why, exactly. Add in the swirling atmosphere of holiday, nice drinks, the way the stewardess' silly pink-and-red miniskirts ride up when they bend to pour them, the casual lust and blurry warm buzz emanating from practically every passenger on this plane and Charles is about to shimmy right out of his skin.

What's worse, Erik seems to know it, if that smirk is anything to go by. "Having fun?" he asks, as casual as the stretch of his legs.

Charles smiles in what he can only hope is a normal fashion and raises his glass. _I don't like it in here. People's thoughts… They… echo, somehow._ He takes a swallow of his scotch, and god, he's trying not to look but he can feel a slight surge of warm interest as his throat works. _Distract me?_

Erik's eyebrows fly up in surprise and _oh_, but…_ That isn't what I meant,_ he says, a little hastily and probably too loud. _ I was thinking we could use the time to plan._

_All right,_ Erik thinks. Very loudly. And some of that must bleed through, because his _I have been wondering about some of your… tactical capabilities_, is a little quieter, if no less commanding.

_Ask away,_ Charles says, and tries not to edge into the pool of excitement and calculation that wells up in the other man.

_Can you… Will you be able to tell if anyone has been there recently?_

_Perhaps,_ Charles allows, a bit cautiously. _I can't tell just from standing in an empty room, if that's what you're asking._

_Hmmm,_ and it feels like mild disappointment. _ But you had something else in mind?_

_I can check the staff. Someone must keep the place stocked, if it's in use. I can check if anyone remembers the faces, whether they've been around recently_.

Erik frowns, and a passing stewardess takes that as a sign to pour him another generous measure of bourbon. "Thank you, love," Charles beams once it's apparent that Erik intends to ignore the poor girl. "Don't mind him," he stage-whispers. "A bit of airsickness, poor fellow." He winks and she giggles, moving him up a few notches in the list of Best Prospective Husbands that doubles as her passenger headcount, leapfrogging him past Erik. He does his best not to look smug about it. _It's also possible – I don't know if I can tell if that woman has tampered with them, but I wouldn't rule it out. I might be able to… feel her work, if I touched it. Perhaps even un-do it._ Erik raises an eyebrow, clearly frustrated by the uncertainty. _I'm sorry I can't offer something more concrete. This is rather new to me, you know._

_I know,_ Erik says, and Charles wants badly to banish that undercurrent of disappointment.

_I'll definitely be able to feel her coming,_ he offers, but the grim thrumming doesn't cease.

_She'll be able to feel you as well?_

_Probably_, Charles admits. _I'm not sure how far she can reach, but I would suppose she can recognize me._

_We'll just have to hope you're stronger,_ and that's even fiercer, louder than Erik's usual. _Or that she's not alone, and decides to come after us,_ and that's quieter, like it's not meant to be heard even though it's clear as day. Maybe someday… Maybe they'll have the time to practice, and Erik can learn to use his brain as subtly as he uses his voice. And if Charles is a little sad about the near-certainty that Erik would be glad to learn to keep things hidden, well… There would be consolations.

_I think it would be best if we walked by the casino during the day. It'll be mostly staff then, underneath, and I can try…_

_Agreed. We don't want to fight on his ground,_ and oh, ouch, that's forceful enough that it's… Well, it's like his ears are ringing from the inside.

He must've winced, because Erik's fingers brush his elbow apologetically. Charles tries to smile normally, and the sharp smug of Erik's mouth lets him know he's failed at that as well. Oh dear. And now the attention of the man across the aisle is catching on him, faint tinges of suspicion and… Oh dear. Suspicion and interest. Charles nudges his attention away as politely as he can.

Erik must have guessed the general gist of his activities; this smile is all teeth. He says something out loud, blasé and purely for show. The loud and frankly fascinating tenor of his thoughts drowns whatever it might have been right out.

Charles lets his most bland, agreeable smile slide onto his mouth. Too many people, too many by half. He'd better stick to business. _If the afternoon doesn't yield results, we can go back in the evening, see if the place is occupied._

_Are you suggesting we enter a den of ill repute, Charles? I'm shocked at you._

_I'll try anything once,_ he replies without thinking, and oh, that smile is wicked. He tries not to shiver too obviously. If this keeps up, he's going to have to nudge the whole plane's attention away from them.

_Is that so,_ and even the jarring tenor of Erik's mental voice can't hide the lasciviousness. _ How will we occupy ourselves for all of those intervening hours in Vice City?_

_I'm sure we'll think of something_, Charles sends, helplessly, and oh, that _smile._

_I have a few ideas_, and there's a quick barrange of half-formed images that Charles is very interested in indeed, but…

_Not here,_ he hisses, jerking his head to indicate the bored businessmen seated around them.

_Spoilsport,_ Erik returns. Charles squirms in his seat and Erik lets out an amused huff, but rummages obligingly for the novel in his bag. It is, of course, pure coincidence that this procedure requires him to jostle his thigh repeatedly against Charles.

_Not here, but not never_, he can't help but add, and Erik favors him with a deliciously slow smile.

_I look forward to it_, and that's just _unfair._

But he turns his attention to Hemingway, warm elbow pressing into Charles' along the armrest. The words flickering across Erik's attention are mesmerizing, and if he can focus on them, on the rather boring gentleman sitting catty-corner to them with his stocks and strange preoccupation with onion casserole…

It's not such a long flight. It will have to do.


	6. Chapter 5a:  Las Vegas, Day 1

**A/N:** So, about this chapter. I got jossed by the dvd extras because of my planned build-up to Angel's strip club, and Erik had ALL OF THE FEELINGS regarding Charles' handling of same, so the whole chapter needed re-writing to make room for that. Hopefully I will have Dragneto all polished up in the next couple of days, but in the interim, here, have some Las Vegas RST. :) Relatedly, please note the ratings jump. Thanks so much for your wonderful comments! They are really making this an even more enjoyable exercise for me.

XXXXX

"We look like old ladies." Erik's discontent is heavy even in the expanse of the casino floor, his mouth slanted down as he pulls on the handle of a slot. "Couldn't we have picked blackjack, at least?"

"Yes, well," Charles mutters, trying to look like he's squinting at the tumbling reels for luck, "you try to interact normally with a dealer and search through forty-odd minds besides."

Erik just grunts and gives and irritable flick of his fingers. The arm on Charles' slot flicks down of its own accord, no nickel necessary, and of course it's this pull that produces the cheerful tinging of coins against brass and a great deal of curious craning of the necks of neighboring players who are – might as well face it – a group of ladies who he wouldn't dream of calling "old" but whom have perhaps left the folly of first youth behind them. The third lady on the left is suspicious, thinks they're cheating somehow because she saw that arm go down by itself and… He amends her memory and he wouldn't be the least bit surprised if that was Erik's aim all along, the way he's smirking and following Charles' line of sight. But all he says is, "Ten dollars? You're a rich man, Charles."

"So I am," he murmurs. "And whatever shall I do with my spoils?"

_My spoils, I should think._ Oh, the smugness is just rolling off the man, but it's the sharp hint of discontent that sits poorly with Charles. He'd tried, lord he'd tried, but after two hours of driving all over creation flinging his attention as wide as it will go, and in this city… Suffice it to say he's a bit frayed at the edges.

Erik is proving to be entirely the wrong sort of distraction, impatient fingers drumming on the slot in front of him. The… simmering that was so distracting on the plane-ride over is still there, yes, but buried deep under sharp anger and the prickle of hundreds of machines tick-tick-ticking everywhere they go, the itch of coins swirling and clanging in an unfamiliar way and Charles isn't even sure that Erik is aware that it's making him irritable. If that is what's making him irritable, for something surely is. Charles can't shake the nagging fear that it's his own lack of utility performing that unwanted alchemy. Last night, today – surely it isn't all a ploy to secure Charles' cooperation but there's more than a hint of that niggling around the edges of Erik's thoughts and it's… It's maddening and unflattering and, joy of joys, he's to be the bearer of more bad news. "None of these people have seen Shaw or Emma…" A questioning look from Erik. "The other telepath. Her name is Emma, apparently. But. Yes. They haven't been seen here in quite some time."

"But they do remember them?"

Charles doggedly presses another nickel into his machine, pulls the handle with more force than is strictly necessary. Erik's mouth pulls down a fraction further, pupils flick-flick-flicking at the reels spin. It's dizzying, even secondhand. "Yes."

"And she couldn't have…" Erik wiggles a couple of fingers in the general vicinity of his temple. Charles shakes his head. "You're sure."

"Yes, I'm sure." Erik's gaze doesn't waver, and if Charles is a little reluctant to elaborate, well. _Their memories seem continuous. There's a possibility that she's very good, of course, and gave everyone right down to the busboy recollections far more seamless than I can construct._

"Hmmm." Erik presses his lips, a thin, uninviting line. _I'm surprised they remember her at all._

_It's not… advisable to alter any single person's memories with anything approaching regularity. Not if you want to stay hidden._

The look Erik gives him is sharp in the extreme. _And if I asked how you knew that?_

_I'd assume you were being disingenuous._

_You've done it._ It's not a question.

_Yes._ Those sharp eyes bore into his own. _It didn't end well._

Erik is obviously dying to press him for more information. He's not going to get it, certainly not here. Those particular childhood mistakes remain the sharpest regret of his life.

Later, he's sure, he's going to feel guilty for creating a distraction in the form of the lovely change girl who suddenly decides to swing by their block of slots a bit earlier than she'd meant to. Well, guiltier. As it is, he can't stop himself from tipping her half their winnings, which draws a startled huff that's half amusement and half irritation from Erik. At least it's a diversion from the larger notes that he's glad he thought to carry, now disappearing into that scandalous neckline alongside a quick false memory of a crowing winner at the tables kissing her on the cheek and sharing his spoils. _You should be thanking me_, he sends, and Erik raises a brow. _She's going to leave Shaw shorthanded now that she and her sister can afford the bus ticket back to Iowa City._

_Charles, what on earth…_

He shrugs, uncomfortable. _This isn't exactly their showgirl dreams, now, is it?_

_Ever the white knight._ There's a hint of warmth around the edges of the irritation.

He swallows a remark about his penchant for strays – no sense picking a fight, especially one his heart's not in – and shrugs helplessly. "My friend, I believe I owe you a scotch."

Erik slides off his stool on the side closest to Charles, brushing against him accidentally-on-purpose in a way that is more infuriating than arousing somehow. "I believe you owe me a bit more than that." The heat is there, yes, but _that's_ not the only thing Erik intends to collect, unless he's much mistaken.

"There's no hope of persuading you to sit in the lounge with me for a bit, is there?" Charles sighs.

"And endure stand-up comedy?" The wry warmth of Erik's smile reaches his eyes this time, so that's improvement, at least. "Besides," he purrs, leaning closer, "I had rather hoped for a more private setting."

"Had you?" and oh, that came out far too tart. There's surprise and anger and – oh – a flash of hurt that's gone from Erik's eyes, quick as blinking. iI wasn't sure… _It doesn't feel like you're entirely in the mood_, he sends, by way of apology. He's sure his smile is pained.

_This place belongs to **him**_, and there's some force behind that voice.

"Let's go," Charles says quietly. He'd known it, of course, but it's now quite apparent that Erik has been keeping himself under very tight control all afternoon; the walls of the dam are bulging, and he doesn't like to think of what might happen if they burst in this place.

Erik follows him silently, all coiled danger as Charles calls for their car, snatching the keys from his hand before he can finish tipping the ballet. "Bad luck?" the man says, sympathetic.

Charles produces a thin smile and an extra five dollar bill. "Something like that."

The valet shrugs. "The night's young."

And then he's in the car, spilling out "I'm sorry," before he can stop himself. "It's this city putting me on edge, I think." Erik guns the engine wordlessly. "It's a… singular place. So many people are so happy here, but there are a fair number of unpleasant minds lurking around, as I'm sure you're aware." Erik's still silent. "It's amazing, when you think about it. Do you know, anyone can go to the shows, the casinos, regardless of race? It's lovely, people of all walks coming together to have a nice time, but I happen to know… I think its lovely, actually, tolerance because it's in their best interests. It's for business reasons, you know. The casinos didn't like splitting the revenues. Well, business reasons and Sammy Davis, Jr. He's in town, did you know? And Sinatra… It's an amazing story, really. Sinatra nearly came to blows over it – they had Sammy playing the casinos but he couldn't stay or even gamble and there he was, the headliner. They're here – I wish you could feel them, Erik, their friendship is _delightful_, but Dean Martin is a bit of a dud if you ask me…" Erik's still silent, but there's the faintest hint of a fond smile playing about his lips. "Oh dear. I'm babbling, aren't I."

"I don't mind," Erik confesses, and Charles feels some of his own panicked discomfort dissipate. Nevertheless, he decides not to comment on the fact that Erik's driven them the wrong way around the block while Charles ran at the mouth.

And if that's all he says, at least it's a comfortable sort of silence, now. Erik hands over the keys to the valet at the Sands peaceably enough, and walks close enough to Charles that their arms brush, companionable, he's sure, to the outside observer, but he's not the only one feeling little jolts of electricity at the contact.

Erik's mind _is_ calmer here, and if he's going to be honest, his is as well. The hotel is jammed with patrons bubbling over with excitement that the Rat Pack will take the stage in a mere three hours and they're lucky enough to have scored one of the golden tickets. So many people, so pleased just to _be_, all dressed up, here and there a frisson of excitement when a celebrity is spotted… It's a less complicated sort of happiness than the heady brew of elation and nerves that wafts off of the gamblers, closer to the atmosphere of a pub after finals. He lets it soothe him as they pick their way through the casino, back toward the hotel elevators.

Erik stops him with a hand on his elbow. "Perhaps I could use that scotch after all."

"Here?" Charles asks, gesturing toward the walk-up bar. "We could have it sent up…"

Erik rolls his shoulders. "Maybe later," he says, steering for the bar. It's crowded, which is perhaps a mercy. The near-deafening burble of happy conversation saves Charles from further verbal gymnastics, and the tense set it working its way out of Erik's shoulders as the bartender makes his slow way down to them. He's something of an artist, this man, shaking drinks high, even lighting some on fire to squeals of startled delight. At long last, he's made it to Charles. "Can I have one of those, er, flaming things?" He ignores Erik's startled chuckle.

The bartender offers an easy smile. "To be honest, that's more of a ladies' drink."

"In that case, how about a martini?"

The barman nods at Erik. "And you?"

"A martini as well, I think." He smiles. "Dirty," and his arm is pressing harder against Charles, who can't quite contain a snort.

_Honestly, Erik._

_What?_ he sends, but his shoulders are hitching with suppressed mirth. _Just getting in the spirit._

_If that's your line, I'm amazed you get into anything at all,_ he shoots back, startling a laugh out of Erik and that's what he'd been waiting for. The angry tension is thoroughly broken, or at least shoved as far back in Erik's priorities as it ever seems to get.

"If Raven is to be believed, you're hardly one to talk," Erik teases.

_Oh, I don't know. I seem to be doing all right,_ and if he adopts a slightly smug tone, well, it's pulling a more honest grin out of Erik, isn't it?

"You are, at that," Erik murmurs, too close. It's delicious, so of course that's when their drinks come. Charles swaps his for a bill and points at Erik, waving off the change. It is quite a good martini, actually, not too much vermouth. He'd be enjoying it thoroughly if he weren't even more thoroughly distracted by the way Erik's watching him sidelong, eyes so hot they're almost sleepy. It's whiplash fast, yes, but it feels genuine enough and hang the worrying anyway. In some lights, that little nag of uncertainty adds some… spice to the proceedings.

It's a heady feeling; Erik's eyes on him are grounding him in his own body with a force he's not accustomed to. The heat at the forefront of Erik's thoughts is an almost physical weight, pressing him into himself, the pulse jumping in his throat, the curl of want in his belly, the heft of his glass, the slight tremor in his hands… They're in a crowd, yes, and he can feel them all, of course, but they're faint, insignificant, out on the periphery of his consciousness. He takes a drink that is more of a gulp than a sip, really, and Erik favors him with a lazy smile. "Don't waste good liquor, Charles," and of course he manages to take an elegant sip. "Take some time to appreciate."

Charles is appreciating, all right. It would almost be dangerous, if anyone around them could be bothered to pay the slightest bit of attention. It almost takes an effort to check, to get beyond the overwhelming sensation of Erik. Fortunately, their neighbors are dazzled by the bright lights and the promise of a good evening. Really, he can empathize.

_May I?_ he asks on impulse. Erik raises a questioning eyebrow. _May I… just a little deeper, just enough to hear what you're thinking?_

And that smile is all edges. Stupid, he shouldn't have asked, he knows Erik isn't comfortable… _About you?_ The loud character of Erik's mental voice is almost right, as overwhelming as the rest of him. Charles nods. _Out here? Kinky. _ And Charles is blushing, he can feel it, but there's a surge of warmth all mixed in with the heat if that makes any sense and anyway Erik is half-smiling over the rim of his glass. _Come on in, then._

He slips in, just the slightest bit, and _oh_ he almost wishes he hadn't because he's probably a sight, but nothing like the sights Erik has conjured up of him. They are… He's quite sure he doesn't look like this, but lord he'd like to, all watercolor edges and flashes of color like a Renaissance painting, a flash of throat, Cerebro's helmet a halo and isn't that intriguing, the rush of _powerwantwantWANT_ that paints that one, sharper than the rest. But there's more, so many more, everything blurry and muted except for eyes that he knows aren't nearly that blue, the way he's flushing now, a flash of what he'll look like tangled up in hotel sheets with that flush painting downward…

He swallows the rest of his drink in one long gulp, Erik's eyes pressing on his throat and _oh._ "Upstairs," he manages.

Erik's smile is sharp and feral. "Yes," is all he says, all he has to say, abandoning his half-finished martini on the counter.

His grip on his ethics is shaky today, isn't it, he'd nudge everyone out of the way just to kiss Erik in the elevator if it weren't for the operator and there are security cameras everywhere probably so that's a little too much, isn't it, but it seems like they are always stuck in elevators, always waiting, going to be interrupted and it's not that far to the fourth floor, honestly, but it feels like forever because Erik is warm and solid and _right there_ and how can it possibly be that the other people in the elevator can't see exactly what's going on, feel the press of emotion slamming around in this little metal box and maybe they do, he doesn't care enough to check but Erik's mouth twists up and he sends _I think you just caused a lot of frigid wives to consider missing their dinner reservations_, over the top of some truly filthy imagery, the cheat, and he'd really better get a hold of himself.

Better yet, he'll get a hold of Erik, just as soon as they make it down the hall. He fumbles for the keys and Erik is smirking and zip, there they go, dragging right out of his pants pocket and that feels…

Its his turn to slam Erik up against the door, damn it but he's tall, but it's not hard to pull his head down and take that mouth and that sharp jaw and he'd better not paw at the suit jacket because they're going to need to go out later, aren't they.

Erik's startled laugh shakes him out of it, just a bit. "So practical," he purrs, giving Charles a light shove, sending him stumbling back a step. "I'll have to do a better job of distracting you." Oh dear. He's broadcasting, isn't he, he'll have to watch out for that. It's agonizing, dredging up enough wherewithal to carefully knit himself in as tightly as he knows how when every last atom in him wants to stand to attention as Erik neatly sheds his suit, nimble fingers working at his shirt buttons. It's enough to blot out the filthy cloud of imaginings tumbling out of Erik, and that's saying something.

He's almost proud that he's able to calmly begin the process of unbuttoning his own shirt. Erik frowns at him and the barrage of images intensifies, brighter and louder and faster and… "You're deliberately trying to overwhelm me," he accuses.

Erik smiles a secretive little smile. "I want to see you undone."

"That's, oh, that's a single entendre at best, Erik," he pants out, earning a huff of laughter. My god, the things Erik is imagining for them – heaving and bedsteads and just… how would that even _feel…_ "And also a singularly bad idea. Unless you, ah – that's not physically possible – unless you want the whole block to know exactly what we're up to."

"Only the block, Charles?" Erik drawls, mock-disappointed, but the barrage of images dims back to a duller roar. Christ, he's a fast learner. He steps forward, nips at Charles's jaw. Oh god – that noise is positively embarrassing but he's past caring, what with Erik's shaky breath against his throat and those nimble, neat fingers unwrapping him with impressive care. "You're going to have to handle the pants," he murmurs, and that's easier said than done, isn't it, to step out of the circle of Erik's arms, fingers trailing along Charles' sides as though to hinder his escape.

He toes out of his shoes, wriggles out of the pants, folds them neatly – that was the point of the exercise, after all, and a surge of heated mischief washes over him so he really out to have expected the half-tackle that knocks him back on to the bed. There's just enough time to wriggle up toward the headboard before Erik is on him, heavy and large and wonderful, pressing him down with heated kisses and _wantwantWANT_ and it's impossible to do anything but writhe, clutch at Erik's shoulders, more and yes and _there_ and then Erik's hands are pawing at his y-fronts, not too careful, the drag of his nails feels better than it should. No room to kick them off and Erik likes that, likes him with his legs half-pinned, oh this is so much better, Erik's whole bulk grinding down on him, and he doesn't really mean to but he's pushing in, harder, at the white-hot center Erik's brain, pushing and clutching and…

His ears are ringing and Erik's collapsed altogether, limp and heavy on top of Charles and that was… unexpected. It's getting a little uncomfortable – sticky, and Erik's not a small man, but almost as soon as he's thought it Erik's pushing himself up on his elbows and oh god, did he… No, no, he hasn't got any memory of suggesting that, thank god. There's that look, wide-eyed, almost vulnerable, almost awed but then it's gone, replaced with something much more guarded. "I'm sorry," Charles mumbles, and the wariness doesn't evaporate, precisely, but it's all mixed in with something like fondness.

"Don't be." Charles is a little gratified that Erik's voice is shakier than usual. "Although you'd better work on your control lest we break speed records."

"I'll work on it for round two," and oh, but he sounds breathless.

Erik laughs and rolls off of him, which is a relief and a disappointment all at once. Charles seizes the opportunity to shimmy out of his underwear. The waistband's clearly stretched beyond all repair, which is half a blessing – no good reason not to use them to mop up.

Erik shivers a bit when Charles swipes the soft cotton over the mess on his belly, drags the other side of the now rather disgusting cloth over his own. Ridiculously enough, he's still wearing his socks. He sits up to pull them off and Erik… God, sliding under the covers shouldn't be so criminally graceful. It's almost enough to stir his interest again but that's impossible just yet, more's the pity. Speaking of which… But no, nothing out of line in the neighboring rooms. He's managed to contain the blast radius to just the two of them. Small mercies.

He feels a brief, overwhelming stab of awkwardness – to get up, get into his own bed, or to stay? – but he's rescued by Erik's impatient huff and half-growled "come here." He slips under the covers – more like scrambles, really, but his legs aren't yet cooperating and Erik is unkind enough to be amused by it. Before Charles can work up a proper indignation, Erik's tucking Charles into his side, pressing a lazy kiss to his temple. His thoughts are slow, languorous, sleep-drunk enough that Charles is abruptly very tired and that's that.

XXXXX

Charles' belly itches, but he's so very warm, too warm to really contemplate getting up. An arm tightens around him and he's reminded why he is so toasty and boneless and there goes any hope of getting up, except… He squints at the little clock on the bedside table and groans. "Angel's shift is over in half an hour."

"You are entirely too coherent," Erik grouses, pressing his face into the pillow. Then he seems to think the better of it and rolls, half-pinning Charles to the mattress. "I can help with that," he says, all wicked teeth and rolling hips.

The noise that's jerked from him is not a whimper, it's _not._ "We'll, _ah!_" Another roll of those sinful hips and he's definitely interested. "We'll worry about that tomorrow."

"I'm sure we'll fill the time somehow," Erik purrs.


End file.
